


The junkie

by CactusWren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Internal Monologue, short-short, this is not who you think it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusWren/pseuds/CactusWren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can get along without it, sure, what addict doesn’t say so?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The junkie

 

I need it. I do.

It’s so good when it happens. So good. I can get along without it, sure, what addict doesn’t say so? And I do. For so long, in the quiet times, the comfortable times.

Until I feel that faint flick of it along my nerves, in my veins. Sometimes no more than that, and it keeps me going.

But I watch you, always looking for the next fix. You don’t see that, do you? You see everything, but not me watching. I watch you, and those pale eyes come up and you move suddenly, just a turn of the head or a sudden step towards a pile of books, and I feel the touch. The little flicker that keeps me going, the promise. The promise that the rush is coming. The fix.

Pusher. You’re my only source. Christ, that _rush_ – every nerve on fire, always two steps behind you (and I would be nowhere else), every muscle aching with exertion and eagerness, mix of fear and fury in the alleys of London or the hills of Dartmoor, long school corridors as I search for you, lasersights and the stench of swimming-pool chlorine, waiting listening silences, tearing pain in my shoulder and shouts and the sound of my gun. And God help me, it’s so good so good _so good._

And then the aftershock, the second rush. Exhaustion and shakes and stupid shared giggles, and bruises, and aches I don’t feel until the next day. (Not nineteen any more, Watson, you want to remember that.) And then the quiet, the calm, the long smooth glide, smells of damp wool and chemistry and baking (Mrs Hudson will bring biscuits up later), and you at the window with your violin. Until the next time.

And there has to be a next time. There has to. Because without a next time, without this … nothing. _Walks._ Grey and grating London, a tiny bare bedsit, a bed and a desk and nothing else, and always _always_ knowing exactly where my gun is, having its presence scratch at the back of my mind.

I know I’ll pay. Someday. Junkies always pay, don’t they? The fix is never free. Someday the bill will come due: a fall that finally shatters the shoulder beyond repair, an explosion, a blade, a bullet. The payment. But until then, you have what I need. You _are_ what I need. My pusher.

Yeah. “Dangerous”, you said. And God help me, here I stand.

Junkie that I am.

 


End file.
